There’s a beach where we used to live
windswept, with dark green entrails of seaweed,
crushed shells and thick rivers of rocks.
Dark green, fertile rich woods
hem the beaches
and the bitter north winds
come riding across the sea to greet us saltily.
It is a not-so-secret secret place,
like the tumbledown old hospital
still alive with the echoes
of the mad, the tuberculosis ridden,
like the secret place in my heart,
we’re all waiting for you to come home.
I lay the table, with it’s faded tartan runner
and some tarnished silver
and I think about the lemon drops
and the faded carpets of the narrow
they’re all still there
but we’re not…anymore.
I love him in the daytime,
and I lie, lie, lie,
knowing I should burn these words
riddled with sentimentality
my own tuberculosis.
Some weaker spirit
would say I love you still,
but I wrap the blanket of deceit
tighter, till it chokes me,
like a madness,
and I call it nostalgia instead.